


Just Mates

by whovianmuse



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), wholock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>In an alternate universe, Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Pond are best friends.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Perfectly content in playing a game of delinquency, they start ditching classes together to share cigarettes behind the ancient brick buildings on campus, foxing from one hiding place to another, and narrowly avoiding watchful eyes. Veiled in a cloud of smoke and shrouded in the shadows of the trees, Sherlock and Amelia burst out laughing over something that no one but the two of them would find amusing, their voices falling to a whisper whenever their professors stride by. In those quiet moments, cradled in between the secret crevices and coves of their campus with nothing but their resolve to keep them hidden, Sherlock and Amelia discover that they can hold entire conversations with simple, subtle shifts in expression.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

            The summer after Amelia Pond turns eleven years old, four years after she’d invented The Raggedy Doctor, Aunt Sharon decides that it’s time for them to move away from Leadworth. At first, Aunt Sharon had found Amelia’s little game rather cute, if a bit unnerving. After all, imaginary friends _were_ a normal part of childhood, even if Amelia’s was an adult male dressed in tattered trousers and a slightly singed tie, who had (apparently) crashed into their garden in the middle of the night and demanded fish fingers and custard. But it wasn’t like Amelia had any _real_ friends to play with, so at first, Aunt Sharon had indulged her, had played along with the act like she actually believed Amelia’s story, all the while wondering when she would grow out of this silly phase.

            But then it became weird, because the weeks stretched into months, and Amelia became obsessed with time-travelling police boxes and aliens and other nonsensical, fantastical notions, to the point where the walls of her bedroom were completely covered in Crayola depictions of this mad, imaginary man and his time machine. She never made any friends at primary, and all of the other children tended to avoid her, relentlessly teasing her and calling her _ginger freak_ behind her back. Oddly enough, Amelia didn’t seem to care about them or what they called her in the slightest.

            Even after nearly four years of torment and mimicry from her classmates and teachers, Amelia still believed in the Doctor. _He’s coming back for me,_ she’d say. _Just you wait. He’s going to take me to see the stars._ Worried and embarrassed, Aunt Sharon had decided to make an appointment with a psychiatrist, though it’d proved to be pointless. After Amelia had bitten the fourth one for trying to convince her that the Doctor wasn’t real, Aunt Sharon gave up. In the end, she came to the conclusion that perhaps this tiny, dismal town was responsible for Amelia’s madness, and so, in the beginning of autumn, the two of them had packed up and left their little home in Leadworth for good, in favor of a modest little flat in the heart of London.

            At first, Amelia is a bit skeptical about the move, wondering if the Doctor will still be able to find her, despite the fact that they’ve travelled quite a considerable distance. But every time she asks, Aunt Sharon just rolls her eyes and ignores her, humming loudly to herself as she puts the kettle on and settles into a cushy armchair by their living room window. Since the move, Aunt Sharon has developed a habit of spying on their neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, and their two sons, Mycroft and Sherlock. They’re a little odd, a little bit too quiet, and something about them makes her cringe.

            So of course, much to Aunt Sharon’s displeasure, Sherlock Holmes is the first person that Amelia befriends on her very first day at her new school. Amelia’s first impression of Sherlock is that he’s bloody brilliant, wonderfully witty, and, in spite of his undervalued charm, a complete and total prat. Sherlock’s mouth has very little restraint, and it isn’t difficult to see why he’s just as much of an outcast here as Amelia was at her old school. The other students all hate him because he can always tell whenever they’re cheating on a test, whenever they’re lying about what _really_ happened to their homework the night before, and which of his classmates fancy one another.

            Even his teachers hate him. It’s almost as if he relishes the look of pure loathing that crosses their faces whenever he interrupts them in the middle of a lecture with brusque hints on how they might improve their atrocious teaching methods. Today, however, Sherlock decides to take it to a whole new level, further delighting in pointing out to their history professor that the only reason she’s being so terse with him is because of her own self-inflicted guilt, self-loathing, and unresolved sexual tension in light of her recent affair, coupled with an all-encompassing bitterness as a result of her impending divorce. _It’s hardly my fault that you can't handle the truth,_ he’s keen to remind her.

            Amelia struggles to contain her laughter, chancing a small smile at Sherlock as he trudges, for what must be the hundredth time, to the principal’s office. Later that day, Amelia finds Sherlock sitting alone at the back of the cafeteria, pondering an apple like Hamlet would Yorick’s skull. Tray of chocolate milk and peanut-butter sandwich trembling in her hands, Amelia walks over to him and asks if she can join him. At first, he pretends not to notice her, subtly arching his eyebrows and studying her through a mess of untidy black hair. After a few seconds of consideration, his lips twist into a curious smile and he nods once, indicating that she’s passed some sort of bizarre test and that she’s allowed to sit with him.

            Rolling her eyes at his obvious madness, but delighted nonetheless to not have to sit by herself for once, Amelia sets her tray beside his, and the two of them finish their lunch in silence. In the weeks that follow, Sherlock proves to be miserable company. He’s rude and abrupt, and most of the time he just ignores her, staring hatefully into the crowd of students scattered across the cafeteria, blatantly unresponsive to any attempt Amelia tries to make at conversation. As a last resort, she decides to trust him with the secret of why she’d been the subject of ridicule at her old school, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock listens to something other than his own musings.

            In that one afternoon, Sherlock reforms his entire opinion about her, deciding that she might make a rather lovely companion after all. Amelia Pond, the oddball girl with a mad, clever mind and a fiery temper to match, the girl who waited for a time traveller from another world. The way that Sherlock teases Amelia about the Raggedy Doctor is different from every one else, because he actually believes her. Or at least, he pretends to. At the very least, he’s intrigued by her wild imagination, though he adamantly refuses to _play_ Raggedy Doctor with her. So instead, the pair of them play pirates, police, and detective, right up until they start sixth form.

            The summer after year eleven, Amelia starts to worry that Sherlock will abandon her in favor of someone more interesting, someone who can challenge his intellect in ways that she will never be able to, but much to her surprise, he doesn't. On their very first day, he weaves with remarkable ease through the sea of students filing in for registration, and he clings to her. Though they’d outgrown the days of faerie tale magic and monsters, of heroes and villains, of costumes and cloaks, of swordfights and backyard battles, their dynamic remains relatively unchanged.

            Perfectly content in playing a game of delinquency, they start ditching classes together to share cigarettes behind the ancient brick buildings on campus, foxing from one hiding place to another, and narrowly avoiding watchful eyes. Veiled in a cloud of smoke and shrouded in the shadows of the trees, Sherlock and Amelia burst out laughing over something that no one but the two of them would find amusing, their voices falling to a whisper whenever their professors stride by. In those quiet moments, cradled in between the secret crevices and coves of their campus with nothing but their resolve to keep them hidden, Sherlock and Amelia discover that they can hold entire conversations with simple, subtle shifts in expression.

            When the very last bell chimes, signaling their long-awaited release, they find one another on the walk home, detouring to downtown cafés and galleries for chocolate truffles and stolen Wi-Fi. Or, if it’s raining, lounging about in each other’s living rooms, sipping tea and dubbing silent films. They dedicate wintertime to wandering the streets of London, exploring every passage and hideaway that their home has to offer, mapping out the entire city in their minds. They spend their summer holidays driving across the country in an ancient, bright red Beetle that had once belonged to Sherlock’s grandmother, taking trains and ferries into Europe to tour the ancient ruins of forbidden cities, courtesy of the odd hundred quid siphoned from Mycroft’s bank account.

            It’s uncomplicated and effortless, a connection rooted in intellect and eccentricity, in odd quirks and juvenile arrogance, in conversations that range from philosophy to perfect nonsense, and most of all, in a constant, all-consuming hunger for adventure. They trust each other without question, protect one another without the slightest hindrance or hesitation. It’s the only aspect of his life that Sherlock never bothers to deduce or unravel. He simply takes it as it is: He belongs with her. She belongs with him. Any deviation from that logic is irrational, and yet, all that it takes to fracture that illusion is a single, simple rumor.

            Everyone in upper sixth form is convinced that Sherlock and Amelia are mad as hatters, and, because social law dictates that boys and girls aren’t allowed to be _just mates,_ everyone also assumes that they’re dating. Much to Sherlock’s disgust, the moment that that rumor circulates is the precise moment when nearly every boy in the sixth form finally notices that Amelia Pond exists. It starts out as sheepish curiosity, poking and prodding and all but outright asking why anyone in their right mind would willingly be Sherlock’s girlfriend, paying no mind to the fact that Sherlock is sitting right next to her.

            The very minute that Amelia denies the rumors, they’re all over her, eyes shamelessly roving her figure, pupils practically eclipsing their irises as they take in every inch of her pale, freckled skin, crude phantasmagoria involving his best friend in any number of compromising positions no doubt racing through their minds. Sherlock can’t help but reflexively curl his fingers into fists. By the end of the week, Amelia has been asked on seven dates by seven different boys, only two of which she’s accepted. Normally infuriatingly loquacious when it comes to his views on their classmates, Sherlock remains resolutely silent and refuses to comment about either of them when Amelia asks for his honest opinion.

            Though he can’t quite place the reason, Sherlock disapproves of every single one of Amelia’s dates and potential boyfriends, and tries his damnedest to scare them off with a tirade of deduction that reveals their every flaw upon first impression. He convinces himself that he’s only trying to look out for her best interests, that he’s only being protective of her in a platonic, brotherly sort of way. Because that’s all this is. That’s all this will ever be. He tells himself that he doesn’t want her for himself, ignores the furious pounding that erupts in his chest every time he watches her kiss them goodnight from his bedroom window. With a sharp twist, he hears Mycroft’s voice inside his head, feels the inevitable truth of his brother’s words writhing like a serpent underneath his skin, poisoning his heart with every pulse.

            _Caring is not an advantage. All hearts are broken._

            There was a time in Sherlock’s life, however brief, where he had actually looked up to his older brother, trusted him, believed in him, swallowed up every lie that Mycroft fed him. He remembers every insult, every nickname, every dagger-pointed glare that his classmates and teachers had ever given him, the way they’d teased and tortured him, and all because he was being honest. His brilliant mind was a curse, a time bomb that never stopped ticking, cogs in clockwork that never stopped turning, and he absolutely hated it.

            Mycroft taught him how to bury his baser instincts, how to lock away his anger and sorrow and worry in a room inside his mind and forget the key, convinced him that caring about others, especially about what others might think of him, would only serve to break him, that anyone who surrendered to emotions was weak and worthless, that words like hope and faith and love were shallow colloquialisms conjured by a society that thrived on delusions of grandeur. And then he met Amelia Pond, and his entire world shifted off its axis and smashed Mycroft’s suffocating grip on him to bits.

            Up until the whole boyfriend complication, he honestly hadn’t given his relationship with Amelia much thought. There’s nothing spectacularly wrong with any of the boys Amelia chooses to go out with, but for some reason, Sherlock finds that he hates all of them, purely because they’ve stolen away precious pockets of her time that could be better spent in _his_ company. He especially doesn’t like it when Amelia smokes with them. Somehow, Sherlock has gotten it into his head that smoking cigarettes is _their thing_ , a vice they’d taken up out of curiosity and boredom, and continue to do together simply because it feels right.

            It’s their tradition, a break in between bickering over ridiculous, senseless theories and hypothetical debates. Though he’ll never admit to it, Sherlock loves the way that Amelia quarrels with him, the way an adorable blush burns across the bridge of her nose the moment she realizes that her defeat is inevitable, the way she ruffles up his hair in revenge for his pompous swagger and his cheeky remarks at her appalling argumentation. The way she rolls her eyes and playfully smacks him across his chest whenever he mimics her in a perfect replication of her Scottish accent. The way she calls him “Spocklock” whenever he launches into one of his deductive tirades, an irritation that very nearly _always_ ends with Sherlock pinning Amelia to his bedroom floor and tickling her senseless.

            He’ll never tell her how much he appreciates the very essence of her company, the way she’s never doubted him, never given up on him, despite the fact that he knows he must be absolute murder to put up with. She doesn’t see his brilliance as a monstrous curse or a social hindrance, but rather as a talent to be revered. He feigns modesty and indifference whenever she tells him that his mind is a beautiful catastrophe. Pretends that his heart doesn’t swell in his chest whenever she brushes back his tousled hair and kisses his forehead. Tries to ignore the way his hands shake whenever she locks her cat-like, olive green eyes onto his.

            He refuses to admit how addicted he’s become to her touch, to the spiraling shiver that winds its way down the nerves of his spine in response to every accidental brush of fingertips and knees, to the delicate graze of her hands kneading the tension from his shoulders, to the way she weaves her fingers through his disheveled mess of curly black hair, and the way each gentle tug of his sensitive locks could, should he go mad and abandon his pride, have him on his knees, begging for mercy. Sometimes, he isn’t certain of what terrifies him more: the idea that he is actually _capable_ of human emotions, or the thought of Amelia figuring it out.

            Whenever he looks at her now, he can’t believe that it’s taken him this long to notice just how beautiful she is. He unconsciously records every tiny detail of her appearance, memorizing the sunlit freckles that dapple her skin like constellations as he absentmindedly traces a trail of them with his fingertips. Captivated by the way the flames of her hair fall in rivulets to her shoulders, the way her soft, pink lips curve into a perfectly sinful, heartbreaking pout.

            He tries to convince himself that nothing has changed, that any subtle shift in his appearance or demeanor is serendipitous, that the fact that he’s started wearing Amelia’s favorite brand of cologne is purely coincidental, that he doesn’t spend more time than is strictly necessary on trying to perfect the softness of his hair, that his interest in learning how to play the violin has absolutely nothing to do with Amelia’s remark that musicians are sexy, that he doesn’t senselessly brandish his brilliance just to impress her. Of course he doesn’t. Why should he want to impress her?

             Enigmatic to the rest of the world, Amelia has learned to read Sherlock’s every expression, to unhinge the mask of his cleverly crafted façade, which makes lying to her nearly impossible. At first, Amelia thinks of it as just another one of their games, a challenge that she willingly accepts. She tries to convince herself that the only reason she’s started wearing shorter skirts around campus is, not because she’s trying to impress Sherlock, but rather as an experiment to gauge his reaction, to see if he’ll even take notice at all. And Sherlock doesn’t disappoint.

            The first time he catches a glimpse of her in a denim mini, his breath catches in his throat and he stumbles mid-sentence, all traces of logical thought scattered into the recesses of his mind palace as his brain tries to compute a curious new sensation. Amelia stifles a mad bought of laughter at the obvious bulge rising in his trousers, delighting in the way his blush creeps across the wicked curves of his cheekbones and flows down the length of his neck as he tries desperately to keep his eyes averted. After that, Amelia makes wearing skirts a priority.

            Secretly, she’s completely enamored with his brilliance, his maverick-minded sense of humor, and his odd obsession with the macabre, fascinated with the way that he can take tiny, seemingly irrelevant details and spin them into an obvious conclusion. She loves the way he wears his tightly fitted button-down shirts that mask the delicate curves of his muscles, the way he turns his collar up against the wind because he thinks it makes him look cool and elusive, the way he’s never seen without the navy blue scarf she’d bought him for Christmas.

          She pretends not to notice, feigns impassivity and hides a devilish smirk whenever she catches him staring at her, stealing covert glances when he thinks she isn’t looking. She tries to ignore the way her heart thunders in her chest whenever he whispers her name, the way his voice swims through her veins like espresso, the way his eyes linger for longer than truly necessary on her lips even when she isn’t speaking, the way his pupils dilate and the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips whenever she says something he’s deemed particularly clever. She loves the way he teases her about _everything_ , the way he compliments her without even realizing he’s done so, the way he’s never shown the slightest interest in another girl.

            But of course, there are aspects to Sherlock that Amelia can’t stand, like the fact he’ll randomly disappear for weeks on end, the way a conversation with him can turn from playful badinage to a heated row in seconds, and the way he cuts across her words like they mean nothing if he’s struck with a sudden, seemingly more important thought. Most of all, she hates the way he scowls at the mention of her imaginary friend, injecting his words with a venomous dose of jealousy as he assumes a tone of pure condescension, rolling his eyes and telling her that she’s fallen in love with a faerie tale man from the stars, that the Doctor isn’t real, but that _he_ is, and maybe she should start to take notice.

            Little does he know that Amelia had already given up on the foolish fantasy that the Doctor would come back for her ages ago, that she had traded faerie tales and folk lore for logic and reason, stopped believing in the Raggedy Doctor and started believing in Sherlock instead. Because there’s something magnificent about the way his pale green eyes lock onto hers, the way he watches her with a curious fascination, something terrifying about the way he’s woven himself so irrevocably into her life, the way he’s made a home in every corner of her mind, the way that she doesn’t give a second thought about placing all of her trust in him.

            And then, sometimes Amelia feels like she doesn’t know him at all. His games are convoluted, his thoughts impenetrable as she tries to unravel him, constantly second-guessing herself about his intentions, convinced that, even if by some miracle he _has_ fallen for her, he’ll lose interest soon enough, and she’ll be left all on her own. Though she’d long forgotten him, the memory of the Doctor’s abandonment still bites into her skin, stitching scars in the wake of his broken promise, leaving her terrified at the thought of losing Sherlock in the same way she’d lost her imaginary friend. So she pretends that she doesn’t love him, indulging in their masquerade, in their silent dalliance, in the thrill of never truly knowing what the other is thinking, and the tragedy of never finding out.


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In an alternate universe, Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Pond are best friends.**
> 
>  
> 
> _Despite their erratic schedules, Sherlock and Amelia find one another in cafés and bookshops on a weekly basis, sharing coffee and cigarettes as they trade stories about their lives. On very rare occasions, one of them will find themselves on the other’s couch the morning after an evening of far too much Pinot Noir and modern science fiction films, a plate of freshly-fried bacon and chocolate chip pancakes resting on the coffee table in front of them, the perfect cure for their pounding headache._

            Sherlock has no idea what compels him to do so, but in the end of their final year, he surprises Amelia by showing up on her doorstep in a sophisticated black suit jacket (borrowed, of course, from Mycroft, without his permission) and asks her to accompany him to the pre-graduation formal, having figured out that she’s secretly been wanting to go. That night, he sits in the corner like a wallflower, pretending to be miserable, rolling his eyes and glowering at the other students, all the while watching as Amelia twirls across the dance floor.

            He writes off his jealousy when the other boys ask her to dance as his general hatred for the human population, desperately trying to ignore the fact that she looks maddeningly beautiful, swathed in a midnight blue silken gown. At the end of the night, when the very last slow song plays overhead, Amelia finally convinces him to dance with her. To his delight, he discovers that he’s actually quite good at dancing, whereas Amelia is appallingly bad at it. She stumbles in her heels, occasionally crashes into the other couples, and nearly cascades into the snacks table, but Sherlock only laughs and rolls his eyes.

            He takes her in his arms and teaches her to waltz, spins her round in circles until she’s dizzy and breathless, pulls her in close to his chest, silently cursing his heartbeat’s betrayal as it thunders nervously against hers. He teases her about her charming clumsiness on the drive home, tallying _dancing_ as yet another talent in his favor. Amelia plunges her hands down the back of his suit jacket in retaliation, and the little red Volkswagon Beetle rockets over a curb as the cold petals of Amelia’s corsage press into Sherlock’s skin.

            “Gotcha,” she says, a smile dancing on the edge of her lips as her fingers swim through his tousled sea of curly black hair. Sherlock rolls his eyes and haphazardly parks the Beetle in between Aunt Sharon’s and his brother’s cars, conveniently forgetting to be a gentleman and open Amelia’s door for her, throwing his arms into the air and mouthing nonsense apologies to her as he walks backward toward her flat. Amelia bites her lower lip to keep a smile from forming as she kicks open the door with the wedges of her heels and rushes to his side, colliding into him as he offers his arm to her and escorts her up the stairs of her front porch.

            They stand together in a deafening silence, his fingertips gently brushing her waist, eyes caught between her soft, pink lips and the spiraling ringlets of her hair as they spill across her shoulders. He’s about to say something, his mind roving over a collection of clever phrases disguised as sarcastic compliments, when Amelia throws her arms around him and whispers, “Thank you, Sherlock.” It’s over in a matter of seconds, just long enough for him to record the inviting scent of her perfume lingering on her neck and shoulders, the soft brush of her hair as it dances across his chest, the delicate touch of her fingertips curling through his hair, the warmth of her body wrapped around his own, the gentle sound of her heartbeat thrumming against her chest.

            It’s enough to keep him occupied for the rest of the evening, the time in between nightfall and daybreak when ordinary people would normally be sleeping, but then she kisses him, a soft, swift graze along the edge of his jaw, and the world around him ignites. Sherlock swallows back a string of carefully crafted words, properly perplexed as Amelia slips inside her flat and locks the door, leaving him shocked and quite alone on her front porch. After a few moments, he recomposes himself and stumbles across the garden to his own flat, fumbling with his keys and repeatedly missing the lock as his eyes wander in the direction of her bedroom window, his hand cupped around his cheek as though Amelia might change her mind and return to reclaim that kiss. Much to his relief, and more to his disappointment, Amelia never brings it up.

            Sixth form ends the very next morning with an agonizingly tedious graduation ceremony, complete with clichéd speeches and an ungodly amount of embarrassing family photographs in unflattering caps and gowns. Over the next month, Amelia and Sherlock pack up the little red Beetle with an assortment of cardboard boxes, overstuffed duffels, and rolling suitcases, and settle into their new flats. Amelia gets accepted into a prestigious academy for drama and theatre, and Sherlock invents a career for himself, spun from the games they used to play when they were children: a consulting detective.

            Despite their erratic schedules, Sherlock and Amelia find one another in cafés and bookshops on a weekly basis, sharing coffee and cigarettes as they trade stories about their lives. On very rare occasions, one of them will find themselves on the other’s couch the morning after an evening of far too much Pinot Noir and modern science fiction films, a plate of freshly-fried bacon and chocolate chip pancakes resting on the coffee table in front of them, the perfect cure for their pounding headache.

            Sherlock feigns interest in the affairs of Amelia’s classmates, scrawls little notes and citations in the margins of the scripts she’s given as assignments, pointing out historical inaccuracies, plot holes, and grammatical errors in dialogue and stage directions, and offers to rehearse with her for each upcoming production, which he then attends on opening night, reserving tickets for the front row purely for the purpose of making silly faces at her during intermission. Amelia pretends to understand the logic behind Sherlock’s career choice, but whenever he disappears to a foreign city for yet another riveting case without the slightest hint or hesitation, Amelia can’t help but worry herself sick.

            Whenever he’s travelling, she calls him up at all odd hours of the night just to hear the sound of his voice, sends him text messages throughout the day just to reassure herself that her reckless idiot of a best friend is still alive. And every time he returns, showing up unannounced at her flat at three in the morning looking properly disheveled but relatively unscathed, she plunges into his arms and tells him just how much he she hates him for having gone in the first place, offers him unlimited access to her kitchen, and spends the rest of the evening listening to the details and conclusive theories of his most recent case, even though she doesn’t understand a bloody word he’s saying.

            Two years later, while Amelia is away on holiday in Scotland, Sherlock takes on a case concerning a string of suicides, provoked by a seemingly innocent cabbie, and discovers Dr. John Watson, a war veteran with a psychosomatic limp and an appetite for danger to rival his own. Within a few short hours of meeting one another, the two of them decide to share a flat together. Amelia likes 221B, even has her own set of keys. She gets on rather well with John, and Mrs. Hudson absolutely adores her. After a while, having quietly observed their interactions, John makes an irritating little game out of relentlessly teasing Sherlock about his poorly-concealed affections for Amelia, threatening to write it all down in his blog (which Amelia follows) if he doesn’t get on with telling her.

            One Saturday evening in mid-December, Amelia comes round 221B for Chinese takeaway and a film, during which Sherlock scoffs and complains, rolling his eyes and shouting obscenities at the television. The two of them are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, while John sits comfortably in his armchair, sipping Chamomile and quietly chuckling to himself whenever Sherlock goes off on another rant. By the time the film has finished, it’s well past midnight, and London is covered in a thick blanket of ice and snow. Amelia extracts Sherlock’s navy blue scarf from around his neck and wraps it around her own, hesitantly reaching for her jacket and secretly hoping that Sherlock will offer to walk her back to her flat and let her borrow his black woolen pea coat for the night, just like he always does.

            “Amy, don’t be daft,” John says, shaking his head. “You’ll freeze to death out there, _especially_ if you’re him. He’ll likely get distracted and wander off. You’re more than welcome to spend the night here. Right, Sherlock?” John tilts his head to the side, surveying Sherlock’s startled expression.

            “Thank you, John,” Amelia says, biting her lip and rounding on Sherlock. “I mean, if it’s…is it okay with you if I stay here tonight?”

            The noise that comes out of his mouth is barely audible, but Sherlock manages a weak _yes_ , and without warning, jumps up from the couch and starts rushing about the flat in a panic, collecting blankets and pillows to create a makeshift bed for her on the couch. John and Amelia stare at him in amusement as he shoves a mountain of bedding onto the couch, proudly points to the muddled mess he’s made, and says, “There. Good?”

            “Right, well,” John says, carefully lifting himself out of his armchair and striding toward the pair of them, his teacup hovering dangerously over the couch cushions. “It’s not like you haven’t fallen asleep on our couch before. Of course, that was always in the daytime. Still, shouldn’t be any diff—“ he says, cursing as his tea slips from his hands and spills all over the couch, soaking the blankets and cushions in scalding water.

            “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, apologizing profusely through poorly concealed laughter. Sherlock stares daggers at John, not completely certain as to whether he’d rather kill him or kiss him.

            “Guess that’s my cue, then,” Amelia says, jacket slung sadly over her shoulders as she slowly shuffles toward the door. While her back is turned, John takes the opportunity to grab Sherlock by the collar of his button-down shirt, shaking him roughly and mouthing, _What are you doing? Go after her._ Sherlock blinks in confusion, eyebrows arched as he stares at his flat-mate in unabashed amusement.

            “Shut up, John,” he says, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Of course I am.”

            Amelia’s fingertips have barely brushed the doorknob when she feels Sherlock’s arms surround her, removing her jacket and scarf and haphazardly throwing them at the coat rack.

            “Sherlock,” Amelia says, slightly flummoxed. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to walk me home?”

            “No,” he says, snaking an arm around her waist and guiding her back across the living room. “You’re staying over, obviously.”

            “Erm, thank you,” Amelia says, pulling away from him. “Really, that’s very nice of you to offer, but I’d rather not sleep in a puddle of tea.”

            “Of course not,” he says, rolling his eyes and sighing in exasperation. “You’ll be staying with me. Look, it’s far too dangerous for either of us to be walking around outside, given the current weather conditions. You can’t very well have the couch, seeing as John has ruined it, and…well…my bedroom is the only logical option.”

            “But then…where will you sleep?”

            “In my bed, of course,” he says, looking perfectly nonplussed, the slightest hint of a blush swimming across the curves of his cheekbones.

            Amelia arches her eyebrows, her lips twisting into a thinly veiled smirk as she follows Sherlock across the living room and into the hallway that leads to his bedroom, secretly flailing when she’s certain his back is turned. She catches the smug little smile that crosses John’s face as she dances down the corridor, and mouths _thank you_ in his general direction before she disappears around the corner. Ten minutes later, the two of them are cuddled up under the comforter of Sherlock’s tiny, twin-sized bed, lying opposite one another with their heads buried into their pillows, staring at each other in complete silence. Neither of them has said a word since they climbed into bed together, not even when Sherlock offered her a spare toothbrush and handed her a pair of his plaid pyjama bottoms.

            The two of them lay there, eyes roving over the details of each other’s expressions, at a loss, for the first time in years, as to what the other might be thinking, hearts thundering in their chests as they hold their breath and wait for the tension to break. It starts with a subtle quirk of Sherlock’s lips, the ghost of a chuckle from Amelia, and then, simultaneously, the both of them burst out laughing, collapsing onto one another in a fit of giggles. As Sherlock’s laughter subsides, Amelia snuggles up against him, resting her head on his shoulder and playfully nudging his chin with the tip of her nose.

            Sherlock presses his cheek against her forehead, his lips curving into a contented smile as he glances down at her, eyes like a calico cat locked onto his with a determination he can’t quite comprehend. He swallows thickly, his breath catching in his throat as Amelia’s fingertips trace the curves of his neck, a spiraling shiver winding its way down the length of his spine as she weaves her fingers through his disheveled mess of curls, gently tugging the tendrils of his hair as she pulls him closer, pressing her soft, pink lips to his.

            Sherlock’s mind erupts in a flurry of fire, a spark igniting in his chest as every gorgeous detail of her existence swims through his veins, indulging in his life-long dependency on the taste, touch, and scent of mad, impossible Amelia Pond, drinking her in, reveling in the moment he’s been musing over and impatiently awaiting for years. He coaxes her closer and draws her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pours everything he’s ever felt for her into that kiss, every stolen glance and covert smile, every pang of jealousy at the thought of imagining her in the company of another boy, every jolt of adrenaline that shot through his heart whenever she whispered his name.

            With a soft, delicate moan that nearly shocks Sherlock into permanent paralysis, Amelia slows the kiss and releases him, the ghost of a smile lingering on her lips as she slides her fingers out of his ruffled hair and whispers, “Goodnight, Sherlock,” before promptly rolling over and curling up against his chest. Sherlock frowns and edges closer to her, burying his nose into the arch of her neck and inhaling the scent of her hair, and leaving a delicate trail of kisses across every inch of her skin, from the curve of her collarbones to the soft plush of her cheeks. With a quivering chuckle, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her closer, the curves of her body interlocking with his as he presses his lips against her ear.

            “You should note,” he whispers, punctuating each string of words with a gentle nip of her neck and shoulders, “that I am only doing this so that you don’t wake me up in the middle of the night, complaining that my comforter is rubbish, and that the thermostat is broken.”

            Amelia rolls her eyes and entwines her fingers with his, pressing a delicate kiss to the palm of his hand as she murmurs, “Took us long enough.”

            Sherlock smiles, pressing one last, lingering kiss along the curve of her neck, before burying himself in the wild flames of her hair and surrendering to his irrevocable addiction. Together, the two of them fall asleep, tangled in one another’s arms, perfectly content for the very first time in their lives.


End file.
